It’s that time again. Time to let off steam. In the post-halcyon days of live music, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to find places to play. I’m beginning to feel that in our quest for gigs, we are giving ground, little by little, so that eventually we will cease to be a force to be reckoned with. The majority of our shows are now in the UK, which is something I don’t particularly enjoy, and the greater part of those are for a chain of resorts that cater to the “older client” . Whilst we get a lot of fans coming along to these shows, they are also populated by senior citizens, whose moaning genes have been seriously activated. They sit there with their fingers in their ears, pulling stupid bloody faces, then they get up and walk out. What exactly is it about BC SWEET-Glam rock from the 70’s that they think they will like? Why do they come here? It’s not a Mantovani weekend, so why do they even sit in here to listen? They could just go and play bowls or something. Or sleep.

Of course, the irony is, these 70-somethings were only around 30 when the songs were hits, 19 years younger than I am, and I’m playing the stuff!! What is it that makes people forget their youth and turn into miserable old gits? I would like to be shot before that happens please.

Plus, I fear the band is taking decisions that diminish our stature, like sometimes agreeing to perform 2 sets. It reduces us to some kind of cabaret, and I just don’t want that. If they don’t want to book us, fine, but I havent worked all these years to be used as wallpaper for the evening. We do an hour show plus encores, that what we do, take it, or leave it. We are loud. It is rock. Take it or leave it.

Of course we may be banned for taking a stand, but If I cant do it properly, then I’d rather not do it at all.

It may seem morbid, but as I hurtle towards my fiftieth birthday, I am ever more aware that, in all likelihood, there are more years behind me than there are ahead, and my thoughts naturally turn to one’s own mortality. Gone the wild abandon of youth, where death is something that happens while you’re “busy making other plans”.

It’s a double-edged sword, of course, because each day tastes sweeter, like a rare wine collection that has a finite number of bottles remaining, and the less there are, the greater they are savoured.

But this painting by Miki had a powerful message for me, and prompted me to write the following poem. And as I write this introduction, I am reminded of my Grandma, and how, after her death, the family went to her house and discovered all her belongings, all her dealings, in perfect order. She had prepared. She was ready.

I think the most one can hope for is that we are at peace when he calls, that he doesn’t call too early, and that he is received as a friend.

Further to my previous entry, in which I unashamedly reminisced about my old band Tubeless Hearts, I present here, following requests to hear the band, one of my favourite tracks. It’s called Good Love, and was written by myself and Fos Foster. It features Graham Oliver of Saxon guesting on lead guitar. I have worked with Graham many times over the years, whether it be on this project, touring with Saxon, or his solo album. He is a great musician, a dear friend, and one of the nicest guys in the business.

The article you see above shows Graham and I after performing an instrumental piece we composed for the Dearne Valley Opera. The whole production was about a mining disaster at a Yorkshire Coal mine, and was beautifully narrated on the day by that larger than life actor, Brian Blessed.

It’s done.
Less years ahead alone
Than behind together
Safely clear of storms
No more heavy weather

He stands in silence
Facing the tree his Father planted
His roots, too, are deep
Always doing what his Father wanted

Him. Resolute. Immovable.
No apologies to send me on my way
No remorse or comforting words
To lighten my load this day

He is not wrong.
He never is
Ten years to the day
Since our last kiss
Which now hangs bitter
On my lips
Like rotten fruit upon the bough
Of that damned tree
The tree that seems to outlast me, now.

My Ears don’t lie
I hear her
The rustle of her robes
As from the house she flies
Oh daughter! Do not make me turn around
I cannot bear this awful sound
Her wailing,
Kept in time by hurried footsteps on the ground

“Mother please! Return!” Her plaintive cry…
“Do not despair, for true love never dies!”
Oh, the innocence of youth!
For true love never touched on him
Nor I.

Miki and I head down to my other “hometown” of Mojacar this weekend, and something occured to me. It’s well known for their spectacular Moros y Cristianos-Moors and Christians festival which takes place in June. Miki has worked her magic and presented me here in traditional Moorish (what else?) costume alongside a cigar-chomping Christian. This festival happens all over Spain, at different times of the year, but down in Almeria province where the Moors influence can still be seen, it carries a special resonance. Now, my surname is Moore, and I’ve always thought I’ve been drawn to Mojacar, its always felt like home to me, perhaps it’s in the genes-who knows? But when I thought about it,. The Moore and the Christians, I found it quite amusing, because over the last few days, I’ve been embroiled in heated and not-so-heated debates with a number of Christians across the blogosphere. It was probably an unconscious decision to redress the balance after my Islamic hysteria recently!

I like to think I’m an equal opportunities religion-prodder. The really interesting thing that’s come out of this is the chance to get to know people on “both sides of the divide” to put it crudely. To see how people really think away from the media hype and hysteria.

I can always agree to differ, and ironically, following my outbursts on Christianity and Islam, Miki and I have received complements on our work from members of both faiths.

I guess what I’m trying to say in my own fashion, is, we all have points of mutual reference, regardless of polarising differences. It is by holding fast to these slender threads and reeling them in, that we will all get along, and the likes of the Rev.Ian Paisley and Osama Bin Laden will be out of a job .

Well, at least Gillian Gibbons, whom the furry one got into trouble, is free. Thanks to Two British Muslim peers, Lord Nazir Ahmed and Baroness Sayeeda Warsi, The Sudanese government eventually saw reason, or more likely, saw an acceptable way to extricate themselves from this monumental embarrassment.

The Sudan clearly have no idea about life on the world stage, having caused catastrophic damage to the cause of moderate muslims trying to convince the West that Islam is a peaceful religion. I sincerely believe, following this farcical, yet undeniably scary incident, that our efforts are best directed at urging peace-loving muslims to publicly decry and denounce those fundamentalists that are poisoning their faith. I neither practice nor acknowledge the veracity of any religion, cases like this reinforcing that view, but I do recognise people’s right to their own beliefs, and their freedom to observe them, but not when it is accompanied by threats, torture and murder.

Let us hope Ahmed and Warsi continue the good work they’ve just done in the Sudan, by urging Muslims in the UK to support peace, and denounce tyranny.

One of my fellow bloggers, Lisa, was commenting recently on the Presentations Miki and I do which involve my poetry and music, and her paintings. I thought today I’d put an example of that. This is one of those we have presented in our shows recently. In the Gallery, they are available to buy as a framed picture with an accompanying CD of the poem narrated by me against the backdrop of my musical composition.

How wild the wind!
The leaves are playthings in its grasp
Torn from branch
And swept up in its arms at last

The stillness of the night recedes
And sunup brings the wind and his misdeeds
Tugging, pulling, unseen fingers
Pry the tiles from tops of houses
Old men´s wildly flapping trousers

Ladies hold their bonnets tight
And dogs all yelp and bark in fright
The playful wind rushes across,
the hillside, ruffling the moss
and heather, pulling at the trees
it tries to rip them root and branch
from ancient soil before it leaves